A Noble Pair of Brothers (The Underwood Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

“So how did you narrow your search to London?”

“By making a few educated guesses, to be honest.  I imagined she could not have been in any one place too long, as one does start to build relationships with various people even in the course of a few days.  One has to live somewhere, to eat, drink, sleep – and in doing those things one meets others!”

“Very true, even when away from home for a few days, I tend to find someone to at least wish good day to, as I take my constitutional of an evening!”

“Precisely.  And as I have learned since arriving here, country people are even more curious about strangers than townspeople are!”

“So, we have established she travelled a longish distance, but how did you prove it was London?”

“The coaching timetable.  Even had I allowed her a week’s stay in the district before her death, the only stage which arrived was the London Flyer.  That week the Manchester service was delayed by a broken shaft and none of the other towns had a coach bound for Beconfield.  It is not on the main coaching routes, and only has a couple of detours through it twice monthly.”

“How did you know that?”

“Simple.  I went to the booking offices.  I needed to buy my own ticket anyway, and asked the right questions.  The pretence of irritation at a similar journey last year brought out all the old records!  I know that it is frowned upon, by the coaching companies, to take aboard any passenger who does not hold a valid ticket – after all they must make their money and pay their shareholders!  I had the great good fortune to be dealing with a man who takes his duties most seriously and who is most meticulous in his bookkeeping.  Normally such a fellow would drive me to the borders of distraction with his nit-picking ways and his preoccupation with trivialities, but on this occasion I could have kissed his prissy face!"

In spite of his vague disapproval of the task Underwood had set himself, feeling that perhaps sleeping dogs should be left to lie, Dr. Herbert found his interest was engaged, “You mean you found a name?”

Underwood nodded, “Naturally at first I found dozens of possibilities, but with the help of my little friend, I gradually whittled down the list.  Some had travelled again at later dates, so I was able to dismiss them.  Finally we brought the list down to five, since Beconfield is not, as I have said, one of the more popular destinations, being, for the most part a place to stop and change horses.  Only one of them was a female.”

“And her name?”

“Unfortunately both that and her address were false – and very unimaginative.  The victim called herself Mary Smith.”

“What makes you think it was an assumed name?”

“Because it would hardly make sense to provide herself with a false address then use her real name!”

“You are positive the address was false.”

“Oh yes, I went there.  It was a mansion belonging to a rather beefy gentleman and his pale little wife.  They had never heard of Mary Smith, had no knowledge of any servant who had left their employ in the past four years and certainly resented the vague connection with a murder, however far away it might be.  Mary Smith had nothing to do with them, I am certain.”

“Presumably that was as much as you could achieve?”

“Not at all.  Our clerk was so highly organized he was able to furnish me with the names of the coachmen who had been on that particular run.  I was fortunate enough to track them down to a seedy little tavern which is a regular haunt for their brotherhood.”

“Good God!”  Dr. Herbert was growing more excited with every passing moment, “Is it possible they were able to furnish you with her description?”

“Not a good one – after all over a year has passed, and they meet dozens of people daily in their work!  One fellow had direct dealings with her and he was inclined to think she was rather more dark than fair, but he could not be sure.  Her hair was covered by a bonnet, and her eyes he thought were brown – dark anyway.  But the girl was remembered for one very good, if tawdry reason.  It would appear that, young as she undoubtedly was, she was a prostitute – and a rather hardened one at that!”

The doctor was hardly surprised by this disclosure, but noted that it had disheartened his companion more than he was admitting, “I did warn you that she wasn’t entirely innocent, Underwood,” he said softly.

“Yes, I know.  It was foolish of me to suppose otherwise, but the truth was a little disconcerting, to say the least.  As the driver pointed out it is not every day that a girl so young and dressed as soberly as a governess, should attempt to solicit him for the price of a meal.”

“Was that why he remembered her?”

“It was.  He told me that he not only gave her the money, but a friendly warning of the trouble she was courting.  He stated that he took nothing in return for the florin.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Strangely enough I did.  He told me that he had daughters of his own and he found her predicament distressing.  I would like to think that the penultimate contact she had with another human being was that last act of kindness.  God knows she was shown little enough mercy thereafter!”        

“Could he guess her age?”

“He thought between sixteen and twenty, but erred towards the lower figure.  She was obviously experienced and showed no shame or remorse, merely pocketing the coin with a grin.”

“And this glimpse of her character in life has not deterred you from discovering her killer?  You do not feel now that she might have courted death by her behaviour?”

Underwood leapt to his feet, filled with the sudden energy of indignation, “I hope you ask that question in order to fill the position of
advocatus diaboli
!  If I thought you really felt that way…”

The doctor smiled and held up his hand as though to ward off a physical assault, “Calm yourself, Underwood!  The Devil’s advocate I am indeed!  I simply wanted to know whether you intend to go on with this.  I am a doctor – one life is as precious as another to me!”

Rather deflated, Underwood sank back into his seat, “I’m sorry!  I do not travel well at the best of times – and I detest London!”

“Think nothing of it.  Tell me, what do you intend to do next?”

“With the – admittedly vague – description, I was able to take out an advertisement in the London papers.  Since I am now convinced her background was an extremely lowly one, I have stated that anyone with information will be rewarded by the princely sum of twenty-five guineas.  That can be guaranteed to bring all manner of nastiness from under stones.  In the meantime I intend to pursue my enquiries here and in Calden and perhaps even Beconfield.  I find it very difficult to believe that the girl was in the area for upwards of twenty four hours and was seen by no one!”

“Good luck, my friend, but I fear you will find our murder a closed book here!  It is not something that anyone who lives here recalls with any pride.  Your brother’s predecessor stirred up a mess of pottage with the same subject and he hasn’t been forgiven yet!”

“I’m prepared to risk it,” said Mr. Underwood with a smile.

“You may be – but is your brother?”

“I rather wish you had not said that,” answered Underwood, displaying, for perhaps the first time, a trace of rueful consideration for his sibling’s feelings.

Dr. Herbert looked thoughtful, “I think you should be careful, Underwood, and not just for your brother’s sake!”

*

CHAPTER TWELVE

(“Non Tali Auxilio” - Not with such aid!)

Sunday dawned bright and clear and Mr. Underwood found himself rather wishing his brother had chosen another vocation in life.  He was not in a Sunday mood and there was nothing to be done about it.  He had a feverish desire to get on with things, feeling that too much time had been wasted already, and a good night’s sleep had provided him with an abundance of energy which he felt compelled to work off.  Sitting in church and listening to one of Gil’s interminable sermons was not going to be easy, but he could not hurt his brother’s feelings, nor his reputation, so he rose and dressed himself in his customary dark garb.

The tolling of a single bell (presumably at the hands of Old Tom, for whom he had been briefly deserted by his brother on his first evening in Bracken Tor, though he had no idea why) was already drawing the devout towards the church porch and he was able to distinguish the Wynter Clan amongst them.  By craning his neck as he struggled to tie his cravat, he was able to peer out of his bedroom window and watch their progress almost to the door, only losing sight of them for a short duration when they paused under the lych- gate to exchange greetings with an elderly man and woman whom Underwood did not know.  He did not bother to ask himself why he should be prepared to risk his appearance by indulging in such contortions, merely observing that Charlotte was indeed present, looking rather more demure than usual in her dark coloured Sunday cape and bonnet.

He entered the church some minutes after everyone else had settled and tried to slip unobtrusively into a pew located at the back.  He was unsuccessful.  Mr. Bellew, the verger, was hovering in anticipation of his arrival, swooped upon him, like a great black crow, his cassock flapping like wings, and taking his elbow, ushered him firmly up the aisle, placing him in the bench reserved for the vicar’s family.  Underwood had hoped to avoid this fate since that ‘family’ usually consisted of a mousy wife and several children, ranged in order of size.  Such a position meant he was now in full view of the entire congregation and could not hope to either slip away early, or fall into a quiet doze during the sermon.  The only advantage he could see was that the Wynter pew was directly opposite and he could covertly observe the members of the family seated there.

Sir Henry was, not surprisingly, absent from the gathering, as were Maria and Edwin, who lived some miles away, but all the rest were present.  Charlotte was at the end of the seat, so he had an uninterrupted view of her profile.  Miss Chapell, he noticed, had been relegated to the pew behind the family and looked pale and tired.  He wondered vaguely if Edwin Wynter had been taunting her again, then dismissed the thought.  There was little he could do to defend her without drawing unwanted attention to her, and to himself.  For him to single her out in any way would simply, in the long run, make her life so much more unbearable.  He knew the Edwins of the world and they were nasty, vicious and usually malicious.  If she really managed to offend him, Miss Chapell might find that his spite could well follow her, even if she tried to find some other employment.  Mr. Underwood made a mental note to say something kind to her, should he see her alone at any time.  It would do her no harm to be given a timely warning.

Rev. Underwood, having been a student of human nature for many years, was only too aware that any sermon he might give would be of far less interest to his parishioners than the new curate, who sat, mercifully silent, next to the altar, he had therefore not bothered to overtax himself in writing a profusion of wisdom which was very unlikely to be heeded.  His sermon was short and almost before everyone knew what they were about, they found themselves leaving the comparative gloom of the church and blinking in the sunlight outside.

No one seemed to be in any particular hurry and very soon the area before the porch was crowded and the babble of voices grew louder.  Charlotte pretended to chat to Mr. Bellew, but in truth she scarcely heard a word the poor man said, being more interested in watching the door for the advent of Mr. Underwood.  He was a long time in coming and she was beginning to suspect that he had left through the vestry – probably with the sole intention of avoiding her!  A pang of humiliation drove the blood from her cheeks as she recalled how she had forced herself into his notice, and how naively she had admitted her feelings for him.  She knew, for the first time in her life, how it felt to regret, most bitterly, her unthinking words and reckless actions.  She wished she could die, there and then!  Oh, to be able to cease breathing, to stop one’s heart at will and never have to face the man again!  What a fool he must think her, and how she had embarrassed him.

He stepped out of the darkness of the porch at that moment and immediately catching her eye, he smiled warmly at her.  She almost fainted with the flood of relief which swept over her.  The smile which she sent him in return hid nothing from those who observed it.  There was a softness to her lips, a tenderness in her expression which caressed every line of his face as she looked at him.

Only two of the gathered company were watching this exchange of glances and it engendered very different emotions in each.  Verity Chapell could hardly bear the pain of realization.  She knew now, without any doubt, that Mr. Underwood was unlikely to ever look at her the way he looked at Charlotte, but she also knew she would have given all she possessed to be the recipient.  The ponderous beating of her wounded heart was making her feel slightly sick and faint.  She had to get away – too many people were crushing against her, and the heat was making the air hard to breathe.  Miserably aware that her departure would not even be noticed, she walked swiftly down the path towards the lych-gate, trying not to stumble over the uneven stones which seemed to rise and fall beneath her feet, blurred by her tear-filled eyes.  She was wrong to think no one saw her go.  Gil watched walk away, but he could not go after her, as he longed to do, since tradition dictated that he keep his post by the door until all the rest were gone.  He was as tied as Underwood had been.  For him to follow the governess would cause gossip, and he refused to pander to those of a lowly frame of mind.

Harry Wynter, meanwhile, was scowling angrily at the sight of his sister ogling the newcomer.  He could barely restrain himself from dragging her unceremoniously from the spot, but the thought of her own fury tempered his decision.  Charlotte could be extremely volatile when she was crossed and was not above grabbing and hurling the first thing that came into her hand, without the least care whether it be a cushion or a knife!  He had, in the past, ducked and run when Charlotte’s ire had been roused, and he thought too much of his good looks to risk having them marred by a lucky shot.

No, this was one matter which was going to need careful handling.  He fully intended to end this touching little affair, but it was going to have to be done with great delicacy.  There was little to be gained by provoking the unpredictable Charlotte into an elopement.

Greetings having been politely exchanged, Charlotte asked rather shyly, “Are you feeling better this morning?”

“Oh yes.  I’m quite recovered now, thank you.  How is your ankle?”

Before she could reply, Harry broke rudely into the conversation, “Well enough for her to go riding.  I think my sister has made rather more fuss than the injury warranted!”

Underwood shifted his gaze languidly to the boy’s face, “Fuss?  As I recall the fuss was made by Miss Wynter’s sisters.  She herself showed remarkable restraint and considerable courage in the face of a very unpleasant experience!”

Charlotte blushed, but her eyes shone with pleasure as she demurred.  Underwood offered her his arm, “May I escort you to your carriage, Miss Wynter?”

“We have no carriage today, Mr. Underwood.  It is Sunday.”

Mr. Underwood was used to town sophistication and had quite forgotten the strict rulings about was and was not permitted on Sunday.  The Sabbath was not held so sacrosanct by town-dwellers as it evidently was in the countryside.  He began to realize that the idyll of the country was promising to become even more imprisoning than the confining walls of the University.

“Then I shall allow you to escort me to the vicarage gate, before I bid you farewell,” he amended hastily.

“Shall I see you tomorrow?”

“I have a great deal of work to do, but I can spare you an hour.  Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

Harry gloated briefly.  The man was an idiot to talk thus to Charlotte!  He waited hopefully for the torrent of abuse which would pour from his sister’s lips at this ‘gracious’ allowance of an hour of the man’s precious time, but to his astonishment she took the insult remarkably calmly, “I shall have the horses ready saddled and you shall show me if you are really the poor horseman you claim.”

They exchanged another smile and fell into step beside one another.  Harry sulkily followed, feeling like an annoying little boy, and not much caring for the sensation.

*

The period of quiet reflection which Mr. Underwood was enjoying in the gloomy parlour of the vicarage could not last long once Mr. Pollock made his entrance.  Underwood started violently as the door flew open and Pollock crossed the room, rubbing his hands together and saying, with irritating heartiness, “All alone, Mr. Underwood?”

“I was,” replied Underwood in his least welcoming tone, and attempting to sink lower in his chair, in the vain hope that he might curl up and disappear entirely.

“Then you’ll be glad of some company, I dare swear!”

Pollock plumped himself onto a settee, raising a cloud of fine dust and causing the legs to creak ominously.  Underwood watched in horrified fascination as the piece of furniture sank beneath his weight, an audible creak from its timbers sounding like an almost human groan.  He waited for the whole thing to collapse and was sadly disappointed when it merely settled.

“Don’t you have anything religious to do, it being Sunday?” he asked hopefully, when it became obvious that nothing was going to break.

“No, Rev. Underwood has told me to take my time in becoming used to the way things are done here.  He says he can manage quite alone for the present.”

That was something Underwood had no difficulty in believing, “Oh, I think he is just being polite, my boy.  I’m sure if pressed he could find you something to do.”

Mr. Pollock laughed, “If I didn’t know better, Snuff. I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“Perish the thought!” returned Underwood quellingly, and turned his attention back to the papers which were spread across the table before him.  Sensing something of interest, Pollock rose and joined him by the table, which stood under the window,

“What are you doing?”

“Planning a murder,” said Underwood, with inspired sarcasm.

“Really?  Writing a book or something?”

Underwood sighed and laid down his pen.  He was not a man to fight against the inevitable, “Not exactly, Pollock.  Tell me, do you have any intention of visiting your new parishioners over the next few days?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Do you think I might be permitted to tag along with you?”

“Certainly - but why should you want to?”

“Merely an interest in my fellow man.”

“Are you on the scent of something odd, Snuff?” asked Pollock, with an astuteness which Underwood would scarcely have thought possible.  He was rather taken aback and asked warily, “What do you mean by that?”

Mr. Pollock drew up a straight-backed chair and sat down, causing the slightest creak in the old wood, “I seem to remember you had quite a reputation for solving little puzzles, like who was stealing books from the college library, and who broke into the Bursar’s office and helped himself to the contents of the strongbox!  You always pretended an interest in your fellow man on those occasions too. What is really going on?”

“You recall too much, Pollock.  If
my
memory serves me well, you might have achieved more had your ability to recall things of interest had included Latin grammar!  Nothing is going on, and I would not tell you if there were anything.  It would be as good as posting a bulletin on the church door for the whole village to read.”

“That’s hardly fair!” protested the curate, his hands spread in appeal, the very picture of outraged innocence, “I can hold my tongue when its needed.”

“My dear Pollock,” replied Underwood, at his most superior, “If – and I only say
if
- there was a mystery to be solved, it would require tact and a delicacy of touch, neither of which, I think you must agree, are your strongest traits.”

“I knew it!  You are on to something.  Tell me what it is, I swear I could be helpful to you.”

“Help and you don’t mix, Mr. Pollock.”

“Snuff,” begged the curate.

Underwood rose to his feet in irritation, “Dammit!  Will you stop using that ridiculous name.”

“It suits you,” grinned Pollock.

“No, it does not!”

Mr. Pollock ignored him, “What time do you want to leave in the morning?”

“As early as you like, but I have an appointment between eleven and twelve.”

“With Miss Wynter?  I must say, Snuff, I never knew you were such a dark horse.”